


come over (stay as long as you wanna)

by faithtastic



Series: DWBYG One Shots [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aka Kassie Skai, Alternate Universe - College/University, Clarke Griffin lesbian whisperer, Clarke has many nicknames for her tits, Crack, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, It’s her brand, Smut, dan Clark ur bobbies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: While Lexa is freaking out about the prospect of flunking Indra’s class, Clarke steps in to rescue her girlfriend from the stress spiral.Another one-shot from the ‘don’t wanna be your girl’-verse, set between chapter 10 and the epilogue.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Series: DWBYG One Shots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/594526
Comments: 35
Kudos: 409





	come over (stay as long as you wanna)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Syn for casting an eye over this.

A strong gust of wind whips across the quad, whistling through the trees and picking up clumps of fallen leaves, and Lexa yanks her fleece-lined denim jacket tighter around her body to combat the cold bite in the air as she marches briskly in the direction of Polis Hall.

Brow furrowed.

Jaw clenched tight.

Stewing in quiet shame and anger directed inward.

Unable to shake the memory of the stony look on Indra’s face when she sniffed: “A fairly superficial take on the central themes. I expected more from you, Lexa.”

Mad, because Indra is right.

The paper was half-assed. Two thousand words battered out on the night before the deadline while Lexa guzzled Red Bull and listened to ‘4 My People’ on an endless loop. So she only has herself to blame for this reckless, lackadaisical approach to what accounts for a third of her overall grade.

Although... in fairness, _some_ of the fault lies with Clarke too.

Since confessing their feelings, they’ve hardly spent a night apart. Whether they’re on a date somewhere or just hanging out at Clarke’s place or seeing friends at Baloney’s, they invariably end up in bed in a tangle of limbs, drenched in sweat and breathing hard. God, if Lexa thought her girlfriend was insatiable before, it’s like by exchanging those three little words, they unlocked in Clarke a whole new level of thirst.

At times, Lexa struggles to keep up.

She’s taken to stashing protein bars in the drawer of the nightstand and elsewhere around Clarke’s apartment, a quick energy boost between rounds to replenish her stamina. She switched from green tea to chugging coffee so she’s at least semi-coherent in her morning classes—even if she spends a good portion of them fidgety and distracted, sitting near the back row with a secret smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, daydreaming about what she did with Clarke the night before and what they might do together later. Still lowkey turned on. Mostly inattentive to the in-depth discussion of Rubyfruit Jungle, because how can she bring herself to care about its frank (and problematic, by modern standards) depiction of lesbian love and lust in 1970s New York City when Clarke exists in the here and now?

Well—of course, Lexa cares. _Obviously_.

But her capacity to critically evaluate iconic works of queer literature is severely limited when 99.9% of her thoughts are occupied by the slope of Clarke’s half-smile and that sparkle in her eyes; when Lexa can still _taste_ Clarke every time she absently sucks her lips into her mouth; when a dull ache persists between her thighs and even the tiniest bit of friction has her wishing for the relief of the hot, wet pressure of Clarke’s tongue instead.

So it shouldn’t come as any real shock that the 24/7 sexual intimacy has begun to have a detrimental effect on Lexa’s performance at school. 

She’s getting screwed—and so is her GPA.

This grade, upsetting and affronting as it might be, is just the rude awakening she needs.

After all, how can she possibly hope to fulfill her dream of getting a full tenured position by the age of thirty-eight if she neglects her studies at this crucial stage in her academic career?

She’s been too wrapped up in Clarke to see the bigger picture: that her ambition to become the youngest Women, Gender and Sexuality Studies department chair of any North American higher education institution is in jeopardy.

Lexa resolves there and then, as she strides towards her dorm building, to do better. To apply the same focus and diligence to excelling in her classes as she does to giving Clarke orgasms. With proper time management, she can do both.

She’s halfway up the steps when she feels the buzz of her phone in her pocket. 

She pulls it out to see a text from Clarke.

_hey babe, coming over after class?_

It’s swiftly followed by a barrage of alternating wink, kiss, and heart eyes emojis. Then two melons, a tongue, pointing finger, ok sign, and several splashes of water. With each successive text Lexa feels her willpower weakening, but it’s the photo she receives a moment later that destroys her resolve completely:

Because… _cleavage_.

So much cleavage it makes her mouth run dry and her brain malfunction.

Clarke’s breasts are pushed together, encased in low-cut ivory satin and lace—a delicate, pretty floral pattern that does absolutely nothing to conceal the erect nipples on display.

Someone barges through the double doors then, and Lexa’s head jerks up. She nearly drops her phone in the rush to hide the screen against her chest as a gaggle of freshmen hurry down the steps towards her, chattering and laughing, oblivious to her red-faced startlement. Once they’re gone, she moves off to the side for a modicum of privacy, but her cheeks remain flushed and her heart doesn’t slow its rapid thump for a second.

Not while her eyes rove over the image again, avidly studying every detail.

Just within the edges of the picture, Clarke’s bottom lip is snared between her teeth as she bites down on the hint of a smirk. The tiny mole Lexa adores so much is out of shot, but she can visualise it perfectly, could find it unerringly with her lips in the dark or blindfolded—and she has, on more than one occasion.

While she idles over those several inches of cleavage again, her attention is drawn towards the purplish-red blotch on Clarke’s left collarbone. Standing out in stark contrast to all of that pale flesh, it’s a vivid reminder of just how carried away she got when they had sex this morning, sucking a desperate kiss into sweaty skin to stifle her cries as she came on Clarke’s fingers (conscious of the passive-aggressive notice one of the neighbours put up in the lobby last week about ‘noise disturbance’). It only made Clarke pump in harder; deeper. Bearing down with the force of her hips behind every thrust, crooking and rubbing her fingertips on the retreat. All Lexa could do to stop herself from screaming was to sink her teeth in as she gushed over Clarke’s hand.

Hours later, Lexa’s knees still feel a bit shaky.

And now, in the photo, Clarke wears that bruise like a taunt and a badge of pride; physical proof of Lexa’s momentary total loss of control.

The sight sparks something in her, a hot tingle that races through her body and prickles like static below the surface of her skin.

It’s _almost_ enough to make her forget about the abysmal grade she received, until her ingrained sense of responsibility kicks in. 

She has a duty to herself, to her feminist forebears and future students to stay the course. And if she’s going to get back into Indra’s good graces, she’ll need to demonstrate this was just a temporary blip. Which means knuckling down, doing more than the required reading, stepping up her game during class participation, and resisting the temptation—however powerful—to drop everything and run over whenever Clarke sends, admittedly, very enticing selfies.

Starting today.

 _Sorry, I can’t,_ Lexa texts back. _Maybe later?_

It’s only a matter of seconds before she gets an incoming FaceTime, and she can’t help her body’s conditioned response to seeing Clarke’s name and picture on the screen: the warmth that suffuses her chest, the flutter in her stomach, the dopey grin that immediately steals across her face. She at least tamps down on the latter before she answers.

Clarke is frowning when the call connects but, mercifully, she has a shirt on.

“Did something happen?” she asks, straight to the point.

“What makes you think that?”

A stare. “Babe, this is only the second time you’ve ever turned me down for sex. And the first time didn’t count because you still let me ride your thigh.” Clarke softens; her eyebrows unknit. She leans closer, all that heart-stopping prettiness filling the screen. “So what gives?”

Lexa thought she’d successfully mastered her emotions, but hearing the concern threaded through Clarke’s tone brings it all flooding back. The crushing disappointment. The deep burn of humiliation. The gall of her classmates congratulating themselves all around her.

Her jaw works for a moment, then she swallows hard. Fighting against the hot, tight feeling in her throat. Blinking away the sting of tears behind her eyes. 

Her chin wobbles dangerously.

“Babe? Talk to me.”

A solitary teardrop leaks from the corner of her eye and she wipes it away quickly with her sleeve.

She mumbles under her breath.

Clarke’s brows scrunch together again. “Huh? I didn’t catch what you said there.”

Closing her eyes briefly, Lexa tips her face up to the gloomy, overcast sky and inhales deeply, drawing upon her last reserves of fortitude. She clamps her lips together then lets out a small, tremulous sigh. 

“I got a B+ on my paper.”

“You—” Clarke snaps her mouth shut and rears back. She scrubs a hand slowly down her face. “Lexa, I thought someone had _died_.”

“My aspirations to graduate cum laude just did.”

Clarke shakes her head in fond exasperation. “It’s one assignment. And you’ll pull it back, I know you will. Because you’re smart and so determined and, when you put your mind to something, there’s nothing you can’t accomplish.”

Lexa sighs again, unconvinced, and averts her gaze; silently brooding.

“Did I mention you’re also super fucking cute when you’re in a sulk?” 

Clarke chuckles at Lexa’s answering scowl. 

“It’s true. I wanna smooch that little pout away.”

Much as Lexa wants to cling to her dejection, wallow in her completely justified misery and self-blame, it’s hard to do that when Clarke’s affectionate teasing makes her entire face burn.

“Just, come over. Please? I promise you won’t be thinking about that paper once I’m through.”

Clarke’s sly wink sends heat rushing to other parts of Lexa’s anatomy, pooling molten and heavy.

Well.

Maybe it wouldn’t be _so_ terrible if she deferred turning over a new leaf until tomorrow.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Clarke greets her at the door wearing a grin and a lurid pink velveteen t-shirt embroidered with the slogan: _Sorry you had a bad day. You can touch my boobs if you want_.

Lexa snorts.

“Where did you even find this thing?” she asks, torn between amusement and mild horror, but her eyes remain glued to Clarke’s chest nonetheless, admiring the tight fit.

“Are you questioning my taste?”

In her mind, Lexa rifles through a mental closet overflowing with sartorial abominations she’s seen Clarke put on her body at one time or another since they started sleeping together.

“Yes, Clarke. Yes, I am.”

A shrug. “It’s gonna end up on the floor soon anyway.”

With that, she pulls Lexa inside the apartment by the elbow and into a forceful kiss. It stretches over minutes, each chasing when the other starts to retreat, both attempting to curb their smiles until they can’t restrain themselves any longer, finally dissolving into quiet, breathless laughter.

“Okay, so maybe it’s not the most stylish item I own,” Clarke concedes, taking hold of the white, fleecy collar of Lexa’s jacket, keeping her close. “But it got a laugh and I count that as a win.”

“Personally, I’d count it as a win if it somehow found its way into the trash.”

The mock glare Clarke shoots her and the subsequent little bite Lexa receives as punishment, a quick scrape of teeth over her bottom lip, only makes her smile grow wider. But soon they’re kissing again, softer this time, and Lexa lives for Clarke’s throaty hum of approval as the contact deepens.

As they drift further into the apartment, Lexa feels the shiver that goes through Clarke from the chill that still clings to her clothes, Lexa’s cold nose and slightly chapped lips. She lets her icy fingers sneak under the hem of that appalling shirt, rewarded with a choked “fuck” and Clarke jerking away from her touch.

“You’re freezing,” Clarke grumbles, but it doesn’t deter her from diving in for another taste. Her hands cup Lexa’s jaw and the back of her neck. Palms hot against Lexa’s skin, soft curves pressing even closer now, and Lexa tightens her hold, wrapping Clarke up in her arms.

She smiles against Clarke’s mouth. “Thawing rapidly though.”

“Uh, yeah, because you’re stealing all my warmth.”

Lexa draws back an inch to evade the next kiss.

“Oh, so should I go then?” Tinged with just enough dry sarcasm for Clarke‘s eyes to narrow. “Because I could hit the books with Anya at the library if you prefer...”

She starts to pull further away, only for Clarke to grab her wrists and keep them locked in place. 

“Not until you hit _this_.”

Low and growly, and it floods the pit of Lexa’s stomach with heat.

They come together in a clash of open mouths, hungry and searching.

Only a few hours have passed since they were last in this position, sharing a torrid makeout before Lexa left in a hurry for class, but she craves it like it’s been a far lengthier separation. Every kiss is a dopamine hit to the reward centre of Lexa’s brain, an adrenaline rush and soaring high that she can’t get enough of. And Clarke is fully aware of the sway she holds; revels in it, like nothing gives her greater satisfaction than Lexa’s habitual need for their lips to be connected.

Clarke continues to exercise that power now, as her hands slide down Lexa’s chest with brazen intent, kneading her breasts through the thick wool sweater. A soft noise lodges in Lexa’s throat at the unabashed way Clarke touches her, never shy or indirect about what she wants. Lexa’s confidence has grown too over these past couple of months. Quietly brimming with it as she breaks away to work her mouth up Clarke’s neck, feeling the groan that rumbles beneath her lips when she finds the one spot that never fails to garner a vocal reaction. The fingers that are splayed across her chest twitch and Lexa smothers her proud smirk against Clarke’s skin. 

Advancing upwards, she sucks a kiss under the hinge of Clarke’s jaw then dusts a few more up to her cheekbone. 

“So… that snap was nice,” Lexa says, nose at Clarke’s temple, lips grazing her ear, enjoying the little shudder it evokes.

“Which one?” Clarke sounds distracted, and that pleases Lexa too.

“The one you sent half an hour ago.” She laughs. Leans back to look at Clarke, eyes darting all around, unable to decide which feature to settle on because every aspect of Clarke’s face is her favourite. “Or have you got such an extensive collection of tit pics in the vault that you can’t keep track?”

Clarke pinches Lexa’s nipple in retaliation and even through several layers of clothing, it still causes a sharp jolt between her legs.

“I mean, I _did_ recently upgrade my iCloud storage, but that might have something to do with the fact I have, like, a million photos of your beautiful hands on my camera roll.”

Lexa hoists an eyebrow. Her lips twist as she fights a smirk. “Only my hands?”

“I have a few snaps of that booty in the spank bank too. Maybe some of your face.” 

Clarke abandons one breast to curve her palm around Lexa’s nape again, fingers sifting through the baby curls.

“Just one or two.” Clarke’s gaze doesn’t flicker. “Hundred.”

Between the proximity of their bodies and the gleam in Clarke’s eyes, Lexa is beginning to swelter. 

“Well.” She licks her bottom lip. “Just so you know, that bra is a definite eleven out of ten.”

“Broke the scale, huh? Then maybe you should take off my shirt to get a closer—”

Before Clarke can even finish that sentence Lexa is tugging the hem up, keen to uncover the curves beneath. When she does, her jaw goes slack and her breathing turns shallow, because Clarke’s tits truly are the greatest, most glorious gift, and Lexa is eternally grateful to exist in the same space-time continuum. Letting the shirt drop to the floor forgotten, she releases a shaky, excited exhale. Soon followed by another when Clarke unhooks her bra and slides the straps down her arms, baring herself to Lexa’s heavy-lidded stare.

Her throat bobs as her eyes sweep over the expanse of creamy skin and the hard, rosy tips of Clarke’s nipples; the bruise on Clarke’s collarbone and the scattering of freckles that Lexa wants to draw lines between, playing connect-the-dots with her tongue.

Without conscious thought, she steps closer and fills her hands. Cupping Clarke. Loving the give of ample flesh and Clarke’s low, eager moan as she pushes into Lexa’s grasp, seeking her mouth again; licking inside.

The kiss turns filthy fast.

Hot and messy and wholly exhilarating.

When they separate, gasping, their mingled, shortened breath coming in heavy puffs, the glimpse of Clarke’s blown pupils sends a high voltage bolt of electricity straight to Lexa’s clit.

“Clarke,” she whispers thickly, overwhelmed by need and unable to articulate it.

Smiling, smug as can be, Clarke brings her arms up to drape them loosely over Lexa’s shoulders. She shimmies into Lexa’s palms. “I’m all yours, babe.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


As soon as they’re both fully naked, Lexa presses Clarke back against the unmade bed and flows after her, swooping down low to lick a broad stripe up from Clarke’s navel.

“Wait,” Clarke says through a moan, even as she arches into the drag of Lexa’s tongue. “I was supposed to be doing this for you.”

Not that she gives Lexa an opportunity to reply. The second she’s within reach, Clarke grabs her by the cheeks and crashes their lips together. All heat and urgency and invading tongue. But the frenzy soon mellows into something gentler; deep, slow kisses that make Lexa’s heart balloon and her mind go hazy, altogether consumed by the flavour of Clarke’s mouth and the crush of so much soft, warm skin.

“Believe me,” Lexa murmurs into the thin slice of air between them as she tilts her head the other way. Her thumbs find Clarke’s nipples, drawing lazy circles around them, deliberately avoiding the hardened tips. “I’m finding this very therapeutic.”

It seems like Clarke’s whole being strains upwards as she catches Lexa’s mouth in another kiss. An edge of impatience in it. Teeth digging briefly into Lexa’s bottom lip. Greedy hands roaming down her back, restless and groping, until they land on her ass and pull her closer.

Clarke swallows Lexa’s hitched whimper.

Uses the leverage to flip them over, rolling on top, and the kiss breaks on Lexa’s soft, surprised gasp. 

“You’ll get your turn later, hot stuff,” Clarke says in that thrillingly husky rasp that always turns Lexa to liquid. “But right now? Class is in session.” 

Clarke lands a quick kiss against Lexa’s parted lips then starts to reverse down the bed. 

“And Professor _Griffin_ is gonna teach you...” 

As she descends, Clarke’s open mouth scorches a damp trail down Lexa’s throat. 

“All about...”

A gentle nip at the edge of her collarbone, soothed by the swipe of tongue. 

“A foundational queer theory.” 

Clarke lifts herself up only far enough to nudge Lexa’s legs apart and wriggle her lower half between. Never breaking eye contact, Clarke bends to wrap her lips around a stiff nipple, and Lexa feels the tug like the nerve endings have a direct line to her clit. 

But the pleasure is fleeting. 

Clarke releases her with a slow, teasing lick.

“Maybe you’ve heard of it? It's called...” One dark blonde brow flexes. “Performativity.”

Delivered in a soft, scratchy whisper that breezes over Lexa’s pebbled skin and makes her hips jerk up, just as an involuntary noise catches in her throat.

Clarke’s lips ease into a knowing smirk.

And Lexa thinks she’s never been more aroused in her life, out of her mind with lust because—

“Did—did you _read_ Gender Trouble?”

Clarke’s laugh heats every inch of Lexa’s body. 

“Mm, no. Just the back cover.” 

Warm lips plant a string of kisses between Lexa’s breasts, down to her belly button.

Their eyes lock along the length of Lexa’s torso, and Clarke barely lifts her mouth to add, “But I did a deep dive on Wikipedia too.”

Something about the way Clarke says “deep dive” while holding Lexa’s stare really gets to her.

“So lie back, babe, and let me give you the _clit_ notes.”

She groans weakly. “Clarke.”

But Clarke is remorseless, flashing a wicked grin before she kisses a meandering path down Lexa’s stomach. Muscles twitch and contract beneath the glide of Clarke’s greedy mouth then, suddenly, before Lexa is fully prepared for it, Clarke’s tongue sweeps through her folds.

Lexa arches, rolling into it. Is incapable of choking back a moan, even as she feels the spread of Clarke’s smile. Another embarrassingly desperate noise escapes when Clarke pushes her thighs further apart, blunt nails scratching over Lexa’s skin, and Clarke opens her mouth wider, angles in a little deeper.

Amid Lexa’s own harsh, heavy breathing and the sloppy sounds of Clarke eating her out, it takes her a minute to register that Clarke is mumbling something between the deft strokes and soft suction. Indistinct at first, but Lexa thinks she hears: “ritualised, repetitive production” and “socially constructed binary gender norms” and, _God_ , it’s more than she can take. Because apparently Clarke has discovered a whole new, very specific kink to exploit, and Lexa is too gay, too nerdy for this.

One minute she’s rocking into the steady, firm laps of Clarke’s tongue, blindly grabbing for Clarke’s hands to slot their fingers together, and then the next, Lexa is tensing.

Clarke is quick to move up, to take Lexa’s clit into her mouth, sucking and sucking while Lexa’s hips rise off the bed and her thighs begin to quake from the strain.

She comes so hard she briefly sees stars.

Head thrown back and eyes screwed shut. Mouth falling open to pant a series of gasping “oh”s at the ceiling until she finally collapses back against the sheets with a long, drawn out moan, Clarke’s name thick on her tongue. For minutes afterwards, she doesn’t stop shaking and Clarke kisses her though the tremors. Delicate presses of lips against the stickiness that coats Lexa’s skin; gentle swirls and darts of tongue where the wetness overflows. Now and then licking into its source, earning a sharp, full-body twitch and her fingers squeezing tight around Clarke’s.

Lexa can only endure so much.

Somehow finding the strength, despite the fine tremble running through her limbs, she uses her grip to urge Clarke up the bed and into view.

The cocky smirk on Clarke’s face would be annoying if Lexa wasn’t so hopelessly infatuated. Nevertheless, she wants nothing more than to wipe that smug satisfaction away. So she cranes her neck forward and kisses Clarke, groaning at the flavour that fills her mouth.

For long minutes, Lexa loses herself in languid exploration, a warm feeling panging inside her chest with every soft noise and halting breath she elicits. Their fingers remain linked throughout and it anchors her. Prevents her from floating away on a cloud of pure happiness as the kisses fade and easy smiles bloom in their place.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm, but...” Lexa bumps their noses together, “why the sudden interest in poststructural feminist theory?”

Unexpectedly, a quiet sigh spills over Lexa’s chin.

Clarke backs off a little. She stares at a fixed spot on the pillow to the left of Lexa’s shoulder, expression unreadable.

“Clarke?”

After a beat of silence, she screws up her face. “Ugh. You’ll think it’s stupid.”

Lexa smiles, soft and encouraging.

“I won’t.” Then, gentler, “Tell me.”

She frees a hand to touch Clarke’s jaw, a silent request for Clarke to meet her gaze. Bit by bit, Clarke’s frown recedes until only a thin pinch remains between her brows.

“It’s just—” Another sigh. “I wanna be able to keep up with you. Intellectually.”

Lexa’s hand shifts, curving around to settle at the nape of Clarke’s neck. She gives a light squeeze. Whispers, “ _Clarke_.” A mixture of tender, emphatic devotion and soft admonishment. 

Clarke huffs out, “I told you it was dumb.”

She purses her lips and rolls her eyes a little.

“I just worry about your Susan B Anthony Society buds thinking I’m some airhead you only keep around because I have a killer rack and give you multiple orgasms.”

“I promise you they don’t. Also, amazing as your breasts—and the orgasms—are, that’s not why I fell for you.”

They share a look.

It’s been weeks, but Clarke still gets this quietly thunderstruck expression whenever Lexa says these things. Like she hasn't fully accepted the truth of Lexa’s feelings as an immutable fact yet. Like Clarke is half-waiting for her to retract it.

So Lexa takes it upon herself to remind Clarke as often, and sincerely, as possible: “I love you. _So_ , so much.”

“Yeah?”

Lexa gives a small, solemn nod.

She scrapes her nails gently back and forth over the base of Clarke’s skull, and Clarke melts into it, sinking heavier against Lexa’s body.

“Head over heels?” Clarke asks, and that low, gravelly register sparks the dormant embers of lust, makes Lexa ache with rekindled desire.

“Completely.”

In one smooth movement, she rolls them over, pinning Clarke underneath her. Legs entwined, their hands still clasped except for the one threaded through Clarke’s messy blonde locks and the spare that slides down Lexa’s spine with purpose.

“I love your stubborn streak and that big, mushy heart.” She dips in to brush her lips along Clarke’s jaw. “Your intelligence and humour.”

Lexa blows on the sensitive patch of skin below Clarke’s ear. Smirks as she feels Clarke’s grip on her ass tighten.

“Your talent. I’m in total fucking awe of that,” Lexa murmurs and attaches her open mouth to Clarke’s throat. Using the barest hint of teeth as she sucks her way down to the crook.

With zero prompting, Clarke draws her knee up and to the side, making room. And Lexa accepts the invitation, pushing her thigh forward in search of the wetness she knows she’ll find. When she meets slick heat, they both groan in unison.

“Fuck, Clarke, I love you because you’re _you_ ,” Lexa breathes into Clarke’s skin, hushed words interspersed with kisses dotted all over her sternum and the tops of her breasts. 

Lexa looks up then, catching Clarke’s darkened, hooded eyes.

“It doesn’t matter to me if you don’t know Butler from Wittig.”

(Well... maybe it does.

A little.

Only because everyone could benefit from developing a broader understanding of socio-cultural critique and how it can be used as a tool for dismantling interconnected systems of oppression.

But now really isn’t the time.)

“What matters is that you care enough to take an interest in things that are important to me.” Lexa presses another soft kiss to the centre of Clarke’s chest. Her lips tilt up. “Especially when it’s not exactly a sexy subject.”

“I don’t know, it was pretty hot when I was spelling out ‘regulative discourses’ with my tongue on your pussy.”

“Oh my God,” Lexa says and drops her forehead, hiding her face in Clarke’s tits, but the gritty laughter from above only makes her blush intensify.

“Gotta say, babe, your reaction was even better than I’d hoped for.”

“Okay, I take it all back. Can’t stand you,” Lexa mumbles, half-muffled by boob.

That raises another fond chuckle. “Liar.”

She turns her head to rub her cheek against Clarke’s chest, right where Clarke’s heart thuds loudest beneath her ear. Lexa listens for a moment before she lifts herself up.

“You realise this is a totally unfair, underhand tactic, right? When your voice is already _so_... and then you have to add _that_ to your repertoire?”

Clarke just smiles that insolent smile, and the last traces of Lexa’s embarrassment fade away, replaced instead by determination. The shift in mindset must show in her face, because she sees Clarke bite her lip; recognises the anticipatory glint in those dark, dark eyes; reads the unspoken challenge held in the defiant tilt of Clarke’s chin: _what are you gonna do about it?_

All the provocation Lexa needs to surge forward and mouth over the generous curves of The Manetmakers, relishing Clarke’s sharp inhalation, the unsubtle grind of her hips against Lexa’s tensed thigh.

For the next long while, Lexa makes sure to worship every inch of Clarke’s tits. Sucking on taut nipples, switching back and forth from one swollen peak to the other, spurred on by the palm rhythmically kneading her ass. Lexa doesn’t stop until Clarke’s skin is flushed pink and her breathing is laboured, until a steady stream of soft whines and ragged moans fill the air. Only then does Lexa untangle her fingers from Clarke’s hair, slipping her hand down the sweat-slick plane of Clarke’s stomach to reach between her legs.

A loud “fuck” rings out and Lexa smiles around a mouthful of Monet.

The motion of Clarke’s hips falters for half a second, then picks up pace in pursuit of the fingers tracing shapes over her clit. It only takes a few circular passes, more direct, sustained pressure as Lexa rubs in firmer, faster, and she feels Clarke go rigid, every muscle sprung tight before the tension snaps. That’s when Lexa pushes inside and Clarke _groans_ , clenching hard as she spills around Lexa’s fingers.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Afternoon is already bleeding into evening by the time they flop down next to each other, exhausted; chests heaving while they try to catch their breath.

“You were right,” Lexa announces to the ceiling, glassy-eyed and still panting a little, unable to rein in her loose smile. “Definitely not thinking about that paper now.”

The mattress dips as Clarke shifts onto her side.

“Um, sorry, could you repeat that first part? I gotta go grab my phone to record this moment for posterity.”

Lexa scoffs.

She turns her head to offer a withering glance, only to have the air punched out of her lungs once again by the sight of Clarke’s nude form washed in the warm palette of sunset; skin aglow and hair, a sex-tossed mane ablaze in gold and amber. The whole visual leaves Lexa spellbound. Speechless. Heart tripping on every other beat, her brain turned to useless lesbian mush, and the way Clarke’s lips curve into that cherished half-smile doesn’t help one iota.

Once Lexa regains the ability to string two words together, she clears her throat and forces her gaze above Clarke’s shoulders.

“Nice try, but that’s cheating. You could hypnotise me into saying almost anything when your boobs are _right there_.”

“Hm.” Clarke props her temple on her fist. “I’ll have to put that to the test sometime.”

Lexa feigns seriousness. “With great breasts comes great responsibility, Clarke.”

They lapse into amused silence, all smiles as they watch one another beneath lowered lashes, until Clarke’s expression turns thoughtful.

“Considering this was such a success, you know, taking your mind off school for a while… imagine if everyone got to experience the soothing properties of my tits?”

Off the cautious look she gets, Clarke puts a reassuring hand on Lexa’s forearm where it‘s folded across her ribs. 

“I’m not talking about letting people line up to, like, touch The Delinquents for five minutes or whatever. I mean metaphorically.”

Lexa sighs in open relief.

“Oh, thank God.” She amends quickly, “Not that I don’t support your bodily autonomy.”

Clarke gives her a gentle pat. “It’s fine, babe.”

“So…” Lexa draws the word out, regarding Clarke with some slight trepidation again. “What scheme _are_ you cooking up? And how much am I going to regret asking about it?”

Clarke pushes upright into a seated position, rearranging her limbs until she’s facing Lexa cross-legged, and Lexa does her best to afford Clarke the full respectful attention she deserves. But, whew, it’s difficult not to let her eyes wander.

“Okay, so, hear me out. Think of all the single queer girls in the world, crying out for a soft titty to hold onto during times of stress and anxiety and deep existential turmoil. It’s a whole untapped market.”

“Mmm.”

“Picture it.” Clarke waves a hand in an arc as though painting the scene. “The Kassie Skai emotional support cushion.”

She peers at Lexa; waiting expectantly.

“What do you think?”

Lexa has to pinch her lips together to suppress her first instinct to laugh, but she nods until the urge subsides. She sits up too, ignoring the faint protest of aching muscles. Leans in to claim a long, soft kiss, pouring every ounce of adoration she feels into Clarke, so incredibly thankful to have this wonderful, ridiculous, irrepressible woman in her life.

“I think it has bestseller written all over it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on tumblr: femininenachos.


End file.
